


follow me like the fears i swallow

by GwiYeoWeo



Series: the sleeping night [4]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Gen, Kid Fic, Possession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:40:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25510711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwiYeoWeo/pseuds/GwiYeoWeo
Summary: But Noctis would have to know, child or not. Whether the boy’s father wanted to keep it a secret or not. Because destiny would not wait and cared not for a single man’s wish. King or not.So Somnus had told him, without decoration or softness. That the boy’s fate was sealed within the words of a god and in the stone of the ground, in every running blood of man and beast alike, in the souls of the dead and the living. For the world would end without the prophecy fulfilled, and the lone child must forfeit his life in slaying his distant kin. Somnus only saved Noctis so that he may die when he was intended to.Somnus keeps a boy's body and soul tethered, when once it had been ripped apart by a demon's fury -- but not out of mercy or love.
Relationships: Noctis Lucis Caelum & Somnus Lucis Caelum
Series: the sleeping night [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1249103
Comments: 3
Kudos: 35





	follow me like the fears i swallow

**Author's Note:**

> i tried changin' up my writing style a lil on this one

Even in silence, he was never alone. His thoughts would always be a companion, but it was not his own voice that would echo back. 

Noctis ran a thumb over the slim band on his middle finger, a black metal surrounding an iridescent cut. A cut of the very Crystal that was safely guarded within layers of walls and locks, that powered the Wall of Insomnia and was the source of many tall-tales and just as many too-true legends. Coveted and feared all at the same time. 

He remembered one tale his own father told him, a story that seemingly belonged to children's books but fitted perfectly in his autobiography, should he ever write one. 

And it went as so: when a Marilith had attacked a little prince and left him at death's doorstep, the King of Lucis fell on his knees before the Crystal and begged for its aid, for its power and protection, and implored the gods from the realm above and the great ancestors beyond their world. All three had answered, delivering their grace in a single form of mercy. Though sometimes, now, after all had been said and done, it seemed more of a curse. 

Regis had told his son that a wisp of light breathed out from the Crystal, carrying with it a small sliver of power and a voice bellowing like struck iron. "Forge a ring in fashion of the King's own and adorn it upon your son like armor," it had said. Were it not for desperation over his son's life, Regis would have hesitated even beneath the weight of the command. But so he had fastened the Crystal's token into a ring and placed it on his frail son's finger, waiting with held breath as he silently begged and wished for the gods and kings of yore to deliver their promises. 

_"But not quite in the fashion your father imagined."_

Perhaps, under different circumstances, Noctis would whip his head around in fright at the sudden intrusion. A voice that cut into his very soul, yet no being to connect it to. But Noctis had grown up with that voice ever since his light had almost been snuffed out; such a dim star until another lent its own fire. 

It was not hard to remain thankful when the reminder was ever with him, one on his finger and the other in his heart. Two beats in one chest, two souls caged within flesh and bone. 

Not often did both stay awake. One slept in a sense, content to watch and observe. It was Noctis who kept to the surface, on most days. 

On others, Somnus did not hesitate to breach the surface. 

Those times, it was often at the beck of the boy. Yet whether or not Noctis realized his wish, did not matter. 

_"Again, you are so uneasy. Though you have done this song and dance so many times already."_

The words almost bit at him, but Noctis knew them to be veiled over something softer though not kinder. 

Noctis let his thumb go, moving his hand away from the ring to the hem of his worn shirt. A cotton made soft through years of wear, a mauve piece that still held vague comforts of his father. It was tight around his shoulders, the color obviously faded and the large cartoon image worn out through so many washes. He would outgrow it soon, he knew. And so did the servants, but he kept it still and they let him. For the days he would need the reassurance and the scent of old memories, when he felt so distant and small that the world would snap him up in one bite. 

His father bought him this shirt some years ago, at a street vendor in a neighboring country, when their faces were hidden underneath a glamour and none the world would know they were king and prince. But no matter how the boy would wish for it, the days were far gone, now. 

So Noctis held on to what remnants he had, though he knew the threads would one day unravel. 

At the very least, he had the small comfort of knowing Somnus would help keep them tethered. Even if, in the back of his mind, Noctis knew — had always known, somehow, in some way — that the old spirit’s aid was not out of altruism. It was a deal, a bargain, made from both ends of the world. Struck for the greater good of Eos. Regis may have done it out of fear and love for his son, but the gods and kings of yore did not care for sentimalities. 

Though he was the first to lend his aid, Somnus did not differ from the rest of the ancient royalties. 

_“Enough fidgeting. Calm your hands, or would you like to tear your shirt? Tsk.”_

Noctis immediately pulled his hands away from his shirt, wrinkled from where his fingers wore at it in anxiety, as if the fabric burned at his skin like Somnus’ voice burned at his ears. Somnus was right; Noctis did not want to ruin the shirt. 

He lifted his feet up and bent his knees to wrap his arms around his legs, a small boy perched within a too big chair. So soft that he might be swallowed whole, but a hard thing against his back and an ache in his tender spine. And the stretch, too, of floor and space between his chair and the door of his room, was an awful thing — only eight paces for an adult to cross, and it gave Noctis knots in his stomach. 

Behind his eyelids, Noctis could feel Somnus sigh. He should have felt bad about it. Guilty. How many times have they done this, just as the old king had said? Yet still, his nerves became stretched thin like Somnus’ patience. Yet still.

Yet still, Somnus offered him reprieve.

_“Sleep, boy. One day I’ll have you fend for yourself.”_

So Noctis did. 

He heard the distant click of his door, followed by the shuffle of well-polished shoes and that familiar tick of the doctor’s pen. And as the door closed, so did another. The ghost of a hand passed over his eyes, lulling his lids to droop and rest. He allowed it; no point in fighting a well-wished help. Not when he welcomed it, and not when they’ve traded breaths so many times already. In the darkness beneath his shut eyes, he could hear his heartbeat ever louder, followed by the faint echo of another, until his own was drowned out. 

Until Noctis was drowned out.

“Good afternoon, Your Highness. How are you feeling today?”

And Somnus took the next breath.

“Perfect.”

  
  


When Regis had fallen on his knee and bowed his head, heart heavy with grief and mind muddled with desperation, he probably did not know what he had truly asked of them. Else he would have never turned to higher powers, in the first place. And after watching, through the eyes of a young boy barely clinging to life, Somnus knew with absolute certainty that Regis would have destroyed the Ring and burned their royal portraits if he realized; nay, _when_ he ever realized.

It’s one thing he’ll give to the boy, fragile-hearted and fragile-bodied as Noctis was. The little thing understood the weight of the world when held against his own. 

If only Ardyn had held the same concept.

Somnus hadn’t meant to bully, but he was never good with children in the first place. A wonder why he offered himself when Regis had summoned them forth, but he knew. No better king than himself, who struck the first blow to seal off the Accursed, to accompany the future king who would strike the last. 

But Noctis would have to know, child or not. Whether the boy’s father wanted to keep it a secret or not. Because destiny would not wait and cared not for a single man’s wish. King or not. 

So Somnus had told him, without decoration or softness. That the boy’s fate was sealed within the words of a god and in the stone of the ground, in every running blood of man and beast alike, in the souls of the dead and the living. For the world would end without the prophecy fulfilled, and the lone child must forfeit his life in slaying his distant kin. Somnus only saved Noctis so that he may die when he was intended to. 

  
  
  


Somnus was utilitarian. Noctis had once confused his efficiency as cruelty, only to discover Somnus struck fast and true, no matter the stakes or the pain. Somnus had little use of sweet words and soft blows — in life and in death, though he still held great power as a long-dead spirit occupying the same space of a boy destined for slaughter.

In some way, there came an appreciation for it. After all, while his father was soft-hearted and held nothing but love and a wish to protect, Somnus held nothing of the sort. Regis refused to tell him what needed to be known; Somnus aimed straight for the heart of the matter. Straight for Noctis’ heart. Clean, swift, efficient. Regis would have padded his words with tears and a soul-crushing crack in his voice, delivering his son’s death sentence too much for either of their nerves. 

But Noctis held no love for Somnus, and neither Somnus for Noctis. 

Which made it all easier to learn that his sole reason for existing was to die as a sacrifice. Noble as the cause would be. 

For a time, Noctis had hated Somnus and all that he represented. A ghost, haunting him and reminding him of the kings’ past failures, of their powers waiting to be stuffed into a single mortal’s bones. A king who, despite everything he had done to his own brother, ruled a kingdom and set forth a legacy to be held and followed. Who got to live out his life as a king, and not as one whose life would be cut short due to some gods’ meddlings. 

But Somnus was not cruel for the sake of being. He offered aid when Noctis was in need of it, taking the boy’s place and replacing a naive child with a seasoned king. A ripple as soft as silk, no one could notice the difference, whenever they traded mind and wakefulness. 

Until that ever-watchful Father had.

“Noctis,” Regis had carefully said one day, coating his words with a deceiving softness, “I’ve hired a new teacher for you. He’ll come once or twice a week, depending on things. Ah-ah, no grumbling, this is a special teacher. At the very least, I can promise you no vocabulary or math lessons.”

It had appeared, that teacher was a psychiatrist of sorts. An interloper, Somnus had snarled. 

Noctis had not caught on so quickly, but Somnus — ever wakeful, never truly asleep — had smelled the lie the second Regis had opened his mouth. A lie he had not received too well, at that. 

The child could be fooled, but not the king. 

Somnus had taken over on their first session, pushing Noctis into the comfort of darkness as he smoothly talked with a child’s likeness and voice. He had weaved in enough fear, enough expression of isolation and loneliness and the wish of a father’s time, else things would have been too picturesque. It had been simple; drawing from Noctis’ own heartfelt emotions and sorrows an easy thing.

Yet still, that damned Father held his suspicions. 

Somnus, to this day, still kept his tongue, because despite all the other fire and venomous words he’ll spit, Noctis would bow down to all except those aimed at Regis. It made Somnus want to scoff, this love that bends at the knee for one’s kin. He had done just the opposite for his own, for his brother. Chained him to a dark tomb to drag on the rest of his eternity, with nothing but rancid air and skeletal mice to keep company. 

And Somnus would do it again, if the world asked of him. 

“You can’t talk to him?” Noctis asked the empty air, eyes still on the booklet of mathematics homework. “Dad says to always try for diplomacy before taking up the sword.”

_Your father is a peace-loving fool,_ Somnus did not say. Instead he swallowed down his retort and replied with, _“Diplomacy has never been an option. My brother was, and most likely still is, a stubborn fool — though now, for very different reasons and for very different causes.”_

He peeled himself off from Noctis’ skin, barely a paper-thin apparition hovering near a child's desk. A blue wisp that looked to fade at the edges, Noctis had described of him once. Unseen by all except Noctis. And unable to do a thing, without a proper body to house his power; and once an almighty king who swelled with magic in life and within the Beyond, reduced to some glorified life-support for a boy more concerned with homework than fulfilling a humanity-saving prophecy. 

Noctis didn't heed him any mind, gathering all his attention to solve a particularly demanding equation. 

Funny, Somnus wanted to think, and almost despairing that the boy's Father had him studying basic maths when he ought to be studying the intricacies of guiding a kingdom instead. Noctis was the heir — the only one, and Regis would not be bearing anymore, Somnus knew — and so the burdens fell on him. He ought to be sitting in the council sessions, learning to differentiate the wolves from the sheep and keeping his blade sharp for the vipers that slither around his throne. 

Funny, Somnus wanted to think. But he could not. 

There was no purpose in teaching a boy how to be a king when he would _never_ become one. 

Regis knew his son would die as soon as their horned crown adorned his hair. 

And unbeknownst to Regis, so did Noctis. 

Somnus was unsure as to how the Father would take to the reveal, when he realized his dear son knew of his own fate and his resignation to it. Would he resist, as would a protective father for his one and only child? Or would he look past the weak softness of love and gaze at the world at large, see the cheap price of one life for millions? 

Or perhaps, both, through the stages of mourning, like Noctis had. When there had been tears, rushing like a furious river of the Fulgurian's storms; anger and despair and _betrayal_ tasting of the salt of the sea and bitter of blood. When there had been denial and grief. 

And acceptance.

Noctis had still been a child when Somnus revealed his fate, but a child who knew the weight of one life compared to the world’s. 

And yet he still tried to prod and ask for possibilities of a more peaceful resolution, though he knew better. For the sake of simply asking, Somnus figured, though nothing would fruit from it.

“Is he… angry? What do you think Ardyn’s doing now?” Noctis continued, just as he continued rubbing a pink eraser across the paper. 

_“I am not omniscient, boy. Am I my brother’s keeper? No.”_ Somnus said, his tone more harsh than he meant it to be. So softer, this time, _“I would like to believe he’s still entombed, but a recent encounter must dash those hopes. He came to Lucis a time ago, as I told you before, rampaging with Ifrit — that cursed god is only repeating his mistakes, I assure you — in order to seek revenge. He may have retreated for now, if only to bide his time. I do not know where he is, but I know that he is waiting.”_

For what the Accursed was waiting for, he left unspoken, but only since they both knew what Somnus meant. 

So the air was left quiet, as a young boy counted his numbers as he did his days, wondering when the time would come when he could no longer.


End file.
